


With a Wham, Bam

by remmyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Meetings, Kiss cam, M/M, baseball games, dean has no chill, dodger stadium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 00:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme
Summary: Sam convinces Dean to attend a company-funded baseball game. There, he meets Cas.





	With a Wham, Bam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Casloveshisfreckles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casloveshisfreckles/gifts).



> Title taken from Danny Kaye's ['D-O-D-G-E-R-S Song'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7qYcyUjDPU)
> 
> A gift for the lovely [casloveshisfreckles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Casloveshisfreckles/pseuds/Casloveshisfreckles), who requested baseball words. I love you, boo.

“Dude,” Dean laughs around the mouth of his beer. “You  _hate_ baseball.”

Sam’s face does the thing it does when he thinks Dean is being overdramatic. Dean rolls his eyes on principle alone.

“I don’t hate it,” Sam says, like, _obviously_ , “I just don’t understand why we have to have the exact same Twins vs. Royals blowout _every._ Single. Year.”

“Hey, that’s on you,” Dean says, pointing an accusing finger. “You know how Mom and Uncle Bobby get after a couple glasses’a egg nog. The fuck do you even put in there?”

Sam smirks, entirely too self-satisfied. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dean only snorts, draining his bottle before signaling the bartender for another. Sam twists in his stool to fix Dean with imploring eyes. “ _You_ like baseball. It’ll be fun, I swear, and I hear they’re good seats! Only the best for Santa Ana’s top firm.”

Dean scoffs with exaggerated disgust, “Really, Sam? Give me the $15 nosebleeds over one of those bullshit glassed-off boxes any day.”  

Sam rattles out a groan and Dean huffs a laugh. Yeah, Dean's totally the one being overdramatic, here.

“Please, Dean? I’m still the new guy up there, and this is my opportunity to make some connections, get to know people!” Sam turns the puppy eyes up to 11. “I don’t want to be the loner friendless loser. Please just come.”

Dean considers Sam for a long, silent moment.

“You’re buying my beers.”

Sam puts up both hands, palms out. “Done.”

“And a hotdog.”

“Okay.”

“And you’re driving,” Dean says, turning back to face the bar, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hell no am I leaving Baby in a fuckin' lot.”

\---

Dean leaves Sam to navigate the way to their seats, more focused on scoping out the best-looking places for food and booze than where they’re going. But when Sam nudges Dean and starts tromping his way down into the stands, Dean definitely takes notice.

“ _Dude._ ” Dean socks Sam in the back of the shoulder, feeling a building glee as he sees the third base line draw ever-closer. “Do we have fuckin’ dugout seats?”

Dean doesn’t need to look to know the face that shoulder-punch earned him, but Sam pulls up his phone to peer at their ticket e-receipt regardless.

“Its, uh, Field Box VIP, apparently.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathes.

“Sam! Over here!”

Both brothers turn towards the voice and Dean spots a young woman, waving from the second row off the rail. She’s beautiful, Dean notes, blonde and beaming, wearing white jeans and an oversized Dodgers jersey. Sam stumbles over his own feet on the next step down and a few things click into place.

Dean smirks at his brother’s back. ' _Make some connections._ ' Sure, Sammy.

They reach the row and the woman leans over from her seat, four in from the aisle. “I’m so glad you came! Do you want to sit?” She gestures to the three empty seats between them.

“Yeah!” Sam says, over-eager. Dean barely suppresses his eyeroll. Sam shuffles in and drops into the seat next to the girl, Dean settling in on his opposite side. He sees the aisle seat next to him has a thin tan coat crushed into the back of it, and can only hope he’s not stealing someone’s spot.

“Who’s your friend?”

Sam jerks like Dean just hit him with a cattle prod. “Oh, um, this is Jess. She’s one of our court reporters.” Jess leans forward to see around Sam’s massive frame, long curls falling loosely over her shoulder. Dean does the same, offers a small wave. “Jess, this is my brother, Dean.”

“Dean?” Jess repeats, smiles. “I’ve heard a lot about you!”

“Aw,” Dean drawls, relishing the opportunity to make Sam squirm. “All good, I hope.”

“Cas!” Sam suddenly bellows at Dean’s ear (um,  _ow_ ) and with the tone of one desperate for a change in subject. “Hi, Cas, hey, how’re you?”

Dean turns to see an intensely gorgeous man hovering in the aisle. Tousled black hair, two-day stubble, tall and lean in a light blue button down and dark-wash jeans. Jesus Christ, does Sam work for a law firm or a modeling agency?

“Hello, Sam,” the man rumbles, voice whiskey-dark and rough as sin. His eyes slide to Dean. Fuck,  _blue._ “Should I move?” He gestures to the coat-reserved seat next to Dean.

It’s Sam who answers. “No, stay! Are we in your way?” The man shakes his head and – shit, Dean’s staring, isn’t he – finally breaks eye contact to move into the row.

“Dean, this is Cas,” Sam continues, completely oblivious to the fact his brother is apparently suffering a minor stroke. “Castiel Novak. He’s a junior partner.”

Castiel extends a hand, still standing, and Dean takes it on automatic. “Hello, Dean.”

Sam keeps talking, some nerd thing about shadowing in the courtroom but Dean barely hears him, focus momentarily consumed by the feel of Castiel’s warm, broad-palmed hand held in his own. The hand slips away and Castiel smiles, small and secret, before turning to slide into his seat at Dean’s side.

Wow. Okay.

\---

“Beer run,” Dean declares, standing some five minutes after the first pitch. Sam starts to go for his wallet, awkwardly rocking to the side to get a hand underneath him, and Dean waves him off. “Nah, I got it.”

“Thanks, man. Want anything, Jess?”

Jess only smirks and slips a hand down the front of her jersey, comes out with a silver flask. Both brothers bark a laugh. “I’ve got it covered.”

“Alright,” Dean says, and turns toward the aisle. “How ‘bout you, Cas?”

Castiel squints up to Dean against the light of the early evening sun. Dude needs some sunglasses. “A lager, please.”

“Sweet, no problem.”

Dean shuffles a half-step forward and Castiel pushes up in his seat to give Dean room to pass.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, right at the moment Dean is crossing in front of him, words spoken low and private into the scant few inches between them.

Dean blushes his sorry self all the way up to concessions.

\---

Dean half-rises from his seat with a cheer, echoed by fans throughout the stadium as Hernández successfully steals second, sliding in a bare inch under the shortstop’s glove. Dean gives a second victory whoop and turns his smile on Castiel, sees the man looking more startled than elated.

“What just happened?” Castiel asks, wide-eyed.

“Our guy just stole second,” Dean enthuses. “Bottom of the fourth and we’re three runs down. Two outs, full count, we need every inch we can get, right? And now we’ve got runners on two and three, we’ve got ourselves a verifiable run on anything. Fuckin’ wild, man.”

“…Ah,” Castiel replies, obviously catching exactly none of what Dean just pitched him.

Dean just laughs, head back and still riding the high of a good play. “Not a baseball guy?”

Castiel shakes his head, a sheepish smile in place. He leans in, and Dean bites his cheek against a shiver at his sudden proximity. “Truth is, this will be the first baseball game I’ve ever watched full-through. Tragically un-American of me, I know.”

Dean grins, leans back for the room to clap Castiel on the shoulder. “Should’ve told me sooner, Cas!” Dean exclaims, ignoring Sam’s pointed look his way at his sudden exuberance. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

\---

“Growin’ up in Kansas, it’s the Royals all the way.” Cas’s head is again attentively bowed into Dean’s, like any of this is actually worth listening to. “And following Sam out here while he was at Stanford, you gotta take a liking to the local teams, y’know?” Cas nods, and Dean sways in another few dangerous inches, conspiratorial. “Don’t tell anyone, but. I've always had a thing for the Cubs, though.”

Cas  _laughs_. Deep, rolling chuckles; scrunched up nose and wide, gummy smile and fuck, shit, Dean is in so much fucking trouble.

“Don’t worry, Dean.” Cas says, happy and transparently sly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

\---

Cas comes back from concessions with their third round of Miller and a bag of Fisher’s. Cas goes to sit; a 24oz in each hand, peanuts tucked in at his elbow and a disaster just waiting to happen. Dean jumps to relieve him of one of the cups, stealing a quick sip off the top as he settles back in to watch Cas do the same.

Cas wastes no time breaking into the roasted peanuts, tearing open the bag and getting shells fuckin’ everywhere. Dean sips his beer, keeps his eyes on the game and tries very, very hard not to watch Cas’s hands as he cracks and peels the nuts, brings the open shells to his mouth to suck out the prize inside.

_Get your shit together, Winchester._

He’s startled from of his all-consuming self-denial by Cas unceremoniously shoving his snack bag into Dean’s face. “Peanuts?”

Dean huffs a laugh, digs into the bag to pull a healthy handful. “Thanks, man.”

\---

Dean gets up to wander at the half of the sixth – ostensibly to explore the stadium, privately wanting the space to quietly freak without feeling like a fucking creep – and ends up in the Sports Store. He spends more time hovering indecisively than shopping, but eventually forks out the cash for his purchase and hurriedly makes his way back into the stands before he completely loses his nerve.

“Hey,” Dean says, pulling up next to Cas in his seat. The man tips his head up to greet Dean, eyes drenched an impossible blue in the light of the setting sun. Dean feels a heated wash of embarrassment and drops his eyes to his feet. “Hey, I, uh, got you a thing.”

Dean holds out the cap, fisting the bill probably tighter than necessary. He chances a look and sees Cas’s eyes now to the gift, hand coming up to tentatively trace the bold, stylized white ‘LA’ embroidered into the navy head of the hat.

Cas again looks up. “Dean?”

Dean feels the swift kick of fight-or-flight terror and rides it all the way down to Blusterville. “Yep! Yeah, all yours.” Dean drops the cap in Cas’s lap and clamors past the other’s legs without giving him the chance to make room, an awkward hop-shuffle back to his seat. “A souvenir from your first game!” Dean laughs the laugh of those hoping for the swift and painless end of life. Preferably right the fuck now. “And hats, they’re cool, right? Good for…hats.” – shut up, shut up,  _shut up_ – “Y’know, sun. It’s…sunny.”

Dean shuts up.

Cas just holds it in silence – the longest minute of Dean’s short, miserable life – until, finally, he lifts the cap to pull it snug onto his head. His smile is fucking blinding.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean feels the rush of relief and warmth of simple pleasure straight down to his toes. “No prob, Cas.”

Sam, sitting at Dean’s opposite shoulder, leans in close. “Smooth.”

Dean tramps down the violent urge to flick his stupid brother in his smug, stupid moose face. “You shut the fuck up,” he hisses back, and resolves to sulk his way through the rest of the game.  

\---

It’s the seventh inning stretch. The sun is warm and the noise of the crowd rises and falls along with some audience participation game projected up on the jumbotron. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back on his shoulders and simply basks in the energy surrounding him.

Goddamn, but he does love baseball.

Sam, being Sam, sticks his big fat nose in Dean’s moment.

“So? You gonna do something about that colossal man-crush you’ve got going on?” he asks, words murmured low at Dean’s ear.

Dean cracks open an eye, ticks his head towards Sam’s opposite side. “How ‘bout you?”

Sam huffs but, before he can respond, Jess urgently grabs at Sam’s arm, pointing an enthusiastic finger up and out. “Guys, look!”

Both Sam and Dean rubberneck up to the jumbotron, where there they are, Dean and his brother cozily leaned into each other and framed by an obnoxious, sparkling pink kiss cam heart.

Jess laughs and Dean straightens in his seat, but Sam jerks so violently out of his space Dean thinks he should be feeling a bit insulted. The crowd seems to agree: a cacophony of laughs, boos, and jeers rippling through the stands as Dean’s left solo, staring like a dumbass up at the screen.

The staring which, a split-second later, grants him the perfect view of Cas leaning in from the side to press a kiss firmly to his cheek.

Dean – like a  _dumbass_ – turns into it, inadvertently catching Cas’s lips in his own.

The crowd goes fucking  _wild,_ cheering like the winning run just slid in home, but Dean barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears, the smell of peanuts and taste of salt on his lips.

 _Fuck it,_ Dean thinks, and dives into the kiss with everything he’s got, hand coming up to knock that stupid navy cap away and get a hand in Cas’s hair. Cas gives as good as he gets, one hand curving around Dean’s cheek as the other grabs at Dean’s thigh, barely above the knee but startling a moan from him just the same.

They eventually break away, panting damp breaths into the minimal space between them.

“Let me take you to dinner,” Cas rasps, gravel and grit.

“Hell, no,” Dean says, and steals another kiss. “I’ll cook.”


End file.
